


Nachturne

by BlackMajjicDuchess



Category: The Blood of Nerys
Genre: Angst, Evil, F/M, Fantasy, Nihilism, Science, Science Fiction, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Sexual Frustration, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-11
Updated: 2015-11-11
Packaged: 2018-04-30 23:33:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5183900
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackMajjicDuchess/pseuds/BlackMajjicDuchess
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six years he's been faithful. To her. To their cause. To the money in her pocket. And to the prize between her legs. </p><p>Six long years, and she still hasn't paid.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nachturne

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CountessMillarca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CountessMillarca/gifts).



> I'm writing this novel for NaNoWriMo... and this scene kept wanting to be written, even though it has no place in the novel. Therefore, I wrote it, and I gave it to you.
> 
> Please note that this is a pretty good representation of how I write, but don't expect there to be a lot of smut in the actual novel :D I have to sell it, so it has to be for a more general audience and it's going to market as sci-fi/fantasy. Don't want to have to classify it as erotica. 
> 
> More notes about the novel at the end of the piece, if you're interested.
> 
> EDIT: This book has been published and can be purchased here: https://books.pronoun.com/the-blood-of-nerys/ 
> 
> If anyone fanfics or fanarts for my novels, I love you.

He climbed. Six flights of cold stone stairs. Barefoot. And every step he ascended toward the heavens was only another step closer to hell. The devil wrapped herself in the pelt of angels, but her eyes never could obscure the truth. It was within them that his soul disappeared, sucked in by the vacuum of sin. He dared, again and again, seeking always to find out how much more of his soul he could lose before he ceased to exist.

His odyssey was accompanied by a piano in a minor key. He hadn’t the proper words for her music—cacophanous, to him, for he cared naught for her symphonies—but when she was in a particularly chatty mood, she had intelligent, sophisticated words for it. Words like nocturne and requiem and dirge. To him, it was only one more thing he hated. And to him, that meant one more hook in his skin, pulling him closer. Step by step, up and up, another notch of volume with every inch. 

They never worked in the opposite direction. It was never Zanje, leaving her divine perch to mingle with the likes of him. No, never that. She would always be the center of gravity, and he would always justify the orbit. Except she was a black hole, and she swallowed everything good within the blackness of her heart. And he didn’t need a reason. Ever. 

He pushed the heavy wooden doors inward, and his eyes fell upon her. The ballroom was larger than most residences, and seven stories up besides, but as with everything, she was the focal point. It was upon her that his eyes focused, upon her that they sharpened, and upon her that they stayed. Everything beyond ceased to matter. He had come to this place for one reason, and one reason alone. “Zanje.”

Her eyes glittered with something sharp and dangerous. In one hand, her fingers curled beneath the globe of a wine glass. It was the color of blood—appropriate—incidentally, his favorite color. And, too, it matched her lips, which was all to the good. His obsession with such a hue had never been a healthy one, but it had served him well. In her other hand, she held one of her cigarettes, tucked in at the knuckles. The haze above her head may as well have been a halo made of ash, glory and desolation combined. Wine and smoke. Two more things he hated about her. Her lips tweaked, and a line of smoke broke against empty air and joined her cloud. She half smirked, all-knowing. She knew the instant he had entered what he intended. He hated that, too. Hated how she knew him so well. Hated how that still changed absolutely nothing. “Shh,” she hushed, eyes drifting closed.

Ah, yes. The music. Even the sound of dead musicians rated above him. How could he have forgotten.

He scowled and crossed the room. Took up the chair across from her and made it his throne, slouching back against the cushion and digging his fingertips into both arms. The prince of blood and night facing the goddess of chaos and ashes. What a pair they made. He waited, as he knew he must. He didn’t _want_ to. He never _wanted_ to. But he never got what he wanted unless Zanje was pleased, and such a feat was tricky; she was a feral beast and didn’t respond well to control.

She listened, swaying only just along with the mournful, slow plod of the piano. Languourously, she swirled the last sip of her wine and tilted it into her mouth. She savored it before she swallowed. He knew, because he watched the knot in her throat bob up and down and bit his lip to see it. She moaned softly, almost out of his range of hearing, enjoying herself as if he was never there. She treated him like an intruder, a fly to swat off as an inconvenience until it suited her to do otherwise. Her head swooned back and tipped side to side. The cigarette went next. He watched it travel and sit upon her lips. It was the only place he loved to see her cigarette because of the slight part in her lips around it. _Obscene_. She had the kind of red-limned lips that were meant to wrap around things and draw his attention there. His imagination ran amok.  

When the music finally ebbed, he had to stop himself from pouncing and ravishing her on the spot. She never appreciated hastiness. _Delicate_. Delicate was something he was not… but he was learning.

“Hello, Berge.” Her head still rested upon the chair cushion. Perhaps seeing the world upside-down put it in a perspective that made more sense. “I’m afraid you’ve caught me at a bad time.”

“I’ll wait.” His eyes traveled down along the curve of her neck, down the v-shape that dipped between her breasts and into the shadows. Up and over her knees crossed so perfectly, two humorless guards to paradise. Oh _yes_ , he would wait.

And this, too, he hated.

She chuckled, a sound low in her throat distorted by the way her neck was bent. She didn’t need to bother with words. She likely guessed—correctly—at the direction of his thoughts. “Come to the balcony, then. Let’s talk business.” She rose from her chair, a graceful unfolding the likes of which no mortal woman should be capable of, and crossed the stone floor. He watched—of course he did—at the accentuated way she swayed her hips. She did it on purpose, knowing how it would affect him. He bit back a groan and followed her out. She bent over the rail, entwining her hands together. That, too, she did on purpose.

And that, too, he hated. So he stopped in the doorway, and admired the view of one admiring a view. She looked, as ever, out upon the masses. They often talked about the stinking populace and how overstayed it was. Besides her shitty music, shitty people were her favorite topic. 

“Do you still hate them, Berge?”

He didn't want to talk. But _she_ did. “More than you.”

“You hate them more than I hate them, or you hate them more than you hate me?”

He smirked. “Yes.”

“Ah.” She shifted from foot to foot, the swell of curves rising and falling, inciting madness.

He moved, drawn to her by forces beyond comprehension. He simply _moved_ , closing distance, and managed only just to rein himself in, crashing into an invisible barrier. His hands instead fell to the rail on either side of her, the line of his body melding against hers. Perfectly, lock and key. He tucked his chin into the crook of her neck and her ear, trembling against the urge to bite and claw and hook every part of him into her and tear her apart piece by piece. 

She only laughed, the cruel sound of a woman in control against a failing man. She made no move to leave, nor a move to meet him. On the contrary, aside from her laugh, she denied that he’d moved at all. 

“I have done all that you asked,” he hissed into her ear. Her hair shivered, disturbed by his breath, yet the flesh it was attached to remained unfazed. “Blood and death and ashes in my wake. I've forsaken myself and laid corpses at your feet. I've burned down palaces and homes with souls still inside.” He pressed his face even closer, so that when he spoke his lips fluttered at the lobe. “When are you ever going to pay me?”

“It is you that handles the money from transactions. So take it.”

“No. When are you going to _pay me?”_ His fingers tightened around the rail until the knuckles went as white as the snow beyond. He stepped forward even more, trapping her between his hips and the balcony, lest she be confused about what kind of payment he meant. 

“Are you asking me for sex, Berge?” she drawled, seemingly amused.

He didn’t appreciate that. He nipped at her ear. “Maybe.”

“Are we making a deal? Are we negotiating? Perhaps next, you will get on your knees and beg for it?”

He scowled. “I’m not in the mood for your fucking games, Zanje.”

“No. I can _feel_ that. Typical for members of your species to put their cocks first. I’m not interested in that.” And then, as if she’d been training in the maneuver her entire life, she twisted painfully against his groin and escaped to one side, leaving him inflamed and yet holding nothing but winter air between his legs. 

A low growl rattled deep in his throat. He stared at the empty space, at a loss for words. Only a moment ago, he’d been hard pressed against flawless feminine ass. Only a fraction of a second, and now he straddled naught but biting, frigid wind—though Zanje and tonight's atmosphere had much in common. Meanwhile, the ache in his pants was growing unbearable. Heart thudding hard and slow, he turned and leaned against the rail with his arms crossed over his chest. “What is it going to take, Zanj? How long do you expect me to do this?”

Already to the ballroom door, she paused. Her head swiveled over one bare shoulder, a picture fit for a painting, one side of her mouth curved, cruel seduction and desires denied. Her eyes raked him over once, and he felt it like the claws of a demon, leaving him hot and ragged over every inch her eyes traversed. “As long as it takes for you to figure out the answer to that yourself. God gave you all the tools you’ll ever need.”

He ground his teeth down upon his tongue until he tasted blood. _Infuriating woman._ She slipped through the door. It shut behind her, leaving him alone with an erection that could cut glass. He adjusted it to fit more comfortably, though it was an impossible feat. He paced, fury building in his veins, spiraling down and down until he couldn’t take it anymore. His fist slammed into the rock beside the balcony door. He wasn’t sure what he expected from that—perhaps the stone to give into his will though she hadn't—but predictably, his knuckles split and pain arced all the way to his shoulder from the insult to his skeleton. “Fuck this,” he snarled. He followed her out. 

He might have imagined the hint of her smoke as he made his way back to the crude and mortal earth. It certainly grew colder as he descended. Or maybe he imagined that, too, since the rage was cooling to a simmer. It didn’t matter. Her castle was only so big, and she only frequented two places—her heavensward spire, high in the clouds, and her laboratory, one layer beneath the earth. And so, he returned to hell, where she likely lurked in wait. Except hell was his homeland. He was much more comfortable in the belly of the earth. Down here, _she_ was trespassing, and _he_ was king. 

He heard her shuffling around in there, playing with her toys before he reached the door. His mouth slowly pulled into a lazy, lopsided smile. She was trapped in there. The laboratory only had one door. There would be no more slinking. No opening her meant-for-sex lips to confuse him and talk her way out of it. He dipped inside, then threw the door behind. It slammed, rattling the frame. 

Zanje stilled, her back to him. “You’ve already been dismissed.”

“Shut up.” He stalked across the space between them, closing it in less than three seconds. He crushed her to the counter and wrapped both arms around her from behind. His right hand closed around her throat, while the left had business with the breasts she didn’t hide well enough to make him behave. “I’m not taking orders from you right now.”

“I’m busy,” she countered.

“I don’t care,” he said through clenched teeth.

“If you want a fight, we’ll fight. But later. I don't have time for this.”

“I wasn’t asking.” His grip tightened, thumbing along delicate, fragile jawbone, wondering how much force it would take to break it. His fingers shook with the need for violence. She needed that. He needed that. 

Beneath his hands, she laughed softly. He’d had enough of her laughing at him. He squeezed, constricting that mocking, cruel throat of hers.

She moaned.

His eyes floated shut, suffused with pleasure at the sound. Such a sweet, sweet sound, far superior to the whining of her string bands. That sound, he would have more of. She could keep her stuffy violins. 

“If you break anything, Berge…”

He grinned, for in those words, he heard tacit consent--not that he’d have required it. “If I break anything”—he put one hand to the back of her head—“what?” He shoved her face to the counter. The cupboards shook, threatening to dislodge one of the glass dishes stored above. He smirked, wishing it had happened. But he rejoiced, for he realized that it wouldn’t take much. He made it an objective.

She groaned as if he’d hurt her, and he soaked it up. She deserved to be hurt. She’d had it coming for as long as he’d known her. She was too alluringly evil, a dark candle in an even darker hallway. She made the things he’d done—treacherous, vile things—look like child’s play. 

He made the mistake of taking his hands off her to get to his shirt, and she snapped back up straight and slapped him across the face, glaring at him and radiating murder. Stars danced in the depths of his eyes, decorating her face with fuzzy gray motes. She may as well have punched him; street thugs had hit him with less force. He smirked, finished tugging his shirt off. She could fight, but he wasn’t going to be done in by a little pain. He wound up and hit her the same way, probably with more force. He’d spent the past six years toting bodies for her, and he had the musculature that naturally went with it. 

She stumbled, imbalanced, and bumped into one of her shelves. One of them came dislodged, and every single piece of glass on it dropped tragically to the floor. The ensuing crash was loud and melodramatic. The hiss from Zanje’s lips as she fell into the mess hands and knees first brought him more amusement. She stared at her hands as they came away bloody, then picked out little fragments of glass that had embedded themselves in the meat of her hand. 

He tsked. “Should have behaved yourself,” he purred.

“I told you not to break anything,” she snapped, speaking to him from the floor. He liked the way she looked down there. He liked the venom in her tone even more.

He stood over her, within striking distance. He almost hoped she attacked him again. He clenched his fists to keep from strangling her. For now. “And I still don’t care.”

“All of this will need to be replaced.”

“So replace it.”

“It’s worth more than your wretched life,” she spat.

“And you can afford it.”

Her eyes narrowed, but she’d run out of arguments, and he still didn’t care. She stood, sashayed back toward him. “You dare to defy me?”

His hands met her first, palms running up along her flat belly, brushing along the soft planes, touching forbidden territory. For reasons unknown to him, he’d won this time. She was letting him do what he’d meant to do to her since he’d laid eyes upon her. The secret must have been in her words, somewhere, but he wasn’t one for solving puzzles. 

Her bloody palms made contact with his chest in much the same way. They left afterimages of her touch upon his person and cried bloody tears down his skin. He’d wear her blood like a badge of honor; likely none had ever seen her bleed. The thought brought him great satisfaction. “You’re bleeding,” he informed her.

“Good,” she murmured. She tilted her face upward, then, and kissed him. When their lips met, what was left of his soul crumbled to dust and was lost on a breeze. Her tongue lagged its way along his, tasting of her cigarettes, and tasting of her. He savored it, consumed it, sucked it into his own mouth. Swallowed damnation and licked the empty husk of the world. 

When she turned over to him, he realized his mistake. He’d fallen for her trap, not she for his. He'd bet all his coin on this, thought that he’d won at long last, but  all he’d done was sign the deed to himself over to her. And he did it gladly; she was everything he thought she’d be and more, but she took more of him than he thought she would.  

When she rode him, she took and took. Anything in him that was good, fled. All thoughts of any other person except for her, banished. His eyes soaked up the sight of her bouncing upon him, and he hated. He hated her. He hated himself. With every stroke, he was brought closer and closer to being nothing but an empty vessel, abandoned by morality. Tatters and broken pieces of man, not worth the fire it'd take to dispose of him. 

And when he fucked her, delving deep into the barren wasteland of the woman, he did so knowing that to do it was to embrace the darkest side of himself. He accepted her terrible plans of humanicide. He consented to her vindictive and careless nature. He condemned himself to agree with wherever she meant to lead the two of them. Once he started, there was no going back. He pounded within her until she cried out. He thrust until he came. They violated one another, sullying the other with whatever filthy veneer coated their beings. She was made less, diluted by the artless hands of a commoner. He was made worse, tainted by the taste of an evil stronger than his own.  

They left, dirtier than when they'd come. He vowed it would happen again. It could take another ten days or another ten years, and it wouldn't matter a whit to him. He'd tasted of that poison. It burned. It decayed. It agonized. But it was a peerless, precious darkness designed to addict, and he was undone. He might die without having her again. But he couldn't abide not trying.

It would happen again, sometimes--when it suited her. And when he needed a reminder just how much he belonged to her. When he needed to be brought low. When he needed to remember his place in the iron fabric of her plans.

When he wanted to remember what it felt like to be already dead, so that he could accept just how meaningless everything really was.     

 

**Author's Note:**

> So the novel is about a fatal illness that's seen as a scourge from God to punish mankind. It's a bloodborne plague that gets particularly nasty. Contagious. Ends with you bleeding to death through your skin. 
> 
> Society has this Magic vs. Science aspect. Scientific progress was halted when magic became a thing. Scientists were seen as quacks, the work they were doing unnatural, so they were lynch-mobbed, more or less, and their books burned. 
> 
> Zanje sees what happened as proof that mankind squandered God's gift--to her, magic was supposed to be used to further science, not destroy it. She possesses both, and she's brilliant. She's discovered the cure for the disease... a rare few have evolved and developed defenses in their blood, and when their blood is given to one of the afflicted, it rescues the condition and makes them immune. 
> 
> But far from being the answer to humanity's prayers, her and Berge are instead selling their cure for a LOT of money, enough to ruin lives. And don't even get me started on where the blood comes from. XD
> 
> But as you can see... they have issues. But it sure does make them fun to write!


End file.
